


Second Time Lucky

by walkedoffanoldme



Category: Glee, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Family, Fluff, Minor Cheryl Blossom/Toni Topaz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27354307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkedoffanoldme/pseuds/walkedoffanoldme
Summary: The first time Santana Lopez watched a baby come out of Quinn Fabray she had been sixteen years old and wholly unprepared for what she was to bear witness to.The second time Santana Lopez watched a baby come out of Quinn Fabray she was twenty-eight years old and about to become a parent.~A series of moments throughout Quinn and Santana's relationship.
Relationships: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Comments: 3
Kudos: 50





	Second Time Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Choni fic in the works but I was completely distracted by Quinntana and needed to get this out of my head. HBIC Cheryl Blossom can only be the product of the two greatest HBICs of all time: Quinn Fabray and Santana Lopez. (I know there's a Brittana/Toni parent fic, which is 10/10, absolute kudos).
> 
> It's been a while (years) since I dabbled into the ol' fanfic world, however, pandemics make for mean amounts of boredom. Be kind, it is nowhere near perfect! (I'm honestly not sure if there's even a target market for this fic, but hey-ho).
> 
> This work, like any work of mine with Santana Lopez in, is dedicated to Naya Rivera. Rest in Peace and Power, beautiful legend. We love you and we miss you and we'll honour your legacy for the rest of our lives.

The first time Santana Lopez watched a baby come out of Quinn Fabray she had been sixteen years old and wholly unprepared for what she was to bear witness to. 

Once the absolute horror of the “miracle” of birth (miracle? Really? What psychopathic woman-hating dickwad had deemed a vagina splitting in two to unleash a bloody torrent of baby and freaky internal juices a miracle?) had subsided, Santana watched as a tiny pink blob had been passed across the room by nurses and cleaned substantially before being placed into Quinn’s open arms. 

The baby had little blonde curls and was a literal mini-me of the teenager whose chest she lay on. It had been overwhelming and emotional and all Santana had really wanted to do was kill the idiot man who was leering over Quinn and the baby, looking like he’d just won the lottery. 

The following months, and years really, had been hard. Quinn had given Beth to Rachel’s mom (like, what the fuck, Shelby? Creep much?) and Santana had held her best friend as she sobbed for what she’d given up and the future she’d enabled herself in doing so. 

~ 

The second time Santana Lopez watched a baby come out of Quinn Fabray she was twenty-eight years old and about to become a parent for the first time. 

They’d agreed that, as Quinn was able to take the time off work, she would carry their first child. Santana had just booked a guest star role on a Netflix show and couldn’t get pregnant, whilst Quinn was able to take maternity leave from her editorial job, so it made sense. 

The agency they used to find a donor was the best money could buy and highly selective with the clientele allowed to donate. Surprisingly, it had been Santana that was most bothered about the donor they used – Quinn had adopted a c’est la vie approach to the whole matter and really was just keen to become a parent alongside her wife, toting the ‘nurture over nature’ spiel around with her to whip out whenever the dark-haired woman had become too picky with her sperm criteria. 

“I don’t know, Q. This guy seems perfect but it says here he works for his father’s business. Do we really want some nepotistic slacker-bloodline family to be the donor?” 

“Honey, do you really think that sort of thing is transferred through genes? If he’s genetically healthy in a medical-history sense then let’s choose him. Our baby won’t be a slacker by blood because he or she- 

“She.” 

“- _He_ or she will have two moms who have raised _him_ or her to be hardworking and conscientious. Plus, people work hard for their family businesses everyday- your brother literally runs your dad’s medical practice now...” 

So, the donor had been chosen and Quinn was pregnant on their first try. It wasn’t too shocking considering she’d literally been impregnated the first time she’d ever had sex, but they had been warned IVF sometimes took multiple rounds. Their stress levels, and their bank accounts, were extremely pleased that wasn’t the case. 

Santana had been so happy, in fact, she used some of the money they’d set aside just in case they needed multiple procedures, to book a surprise babymoon to Mexico for herself and her wife. 

~ 

The couple had decided they wouldn’t know the appearance of their donor, or simple traits such as eye and hair colour, beforehand, as it made Quinn feel as though she was building her own American Girl Doll rather than just letting nature take its course. Santana hadn’t really been bothered either, she knew one day they would use the same sperm with her egg and create a baby who reflected her heritage, so it wasn’t a deal breaker. Plus, the agency was so boujee, she knew they only allowed the crème de la crème of willing donators. 

So, the second time Santana Lopez (well, Lopez-Fabray really) watched a baby exit (her now wife) Quinn (Lopez-) Fabray, she had been completely prepared for the carnage her eyes would be met with. 

What she hadn’t been prepared for, however, was the shock of bright red hair that had greeted her as her baby’s head had breached her wife's most heavenly area (well, one of many heavenly areas). 

“Oh my god.” The words fell from her mouth in awe, “Oh my god, Q, it’s a redhead!” 

The blonde’s eyes shot open and flickered wildly over her wife’s expression. “Don’t- ...fuck me- call our baby- dear god what hell...- an IT.” 

Just like it’s defining features, the baby’s gender was also to be a surprise at Quinn’s request. Knowing that Beth had been a baby girl growing inside her had been near impossible to deal with when she had decided she couldn’t keep her – if something had happened to this baby and she knew the gender... She didn’t think she could have done it. 

The vice-like grip Quinn had on Santana’s hand tightened as their baby’s body followed its head out of her and the half-Puerto Rican muttered her apologies in Spanish as she tried not to whimper in pain. 

A tug from the doctor had the baby fully out and into a nurse’s arms before either woman could get a proper glimpse, a blonde head falling back to rest on the pillows as hazel eyes found dark-brown. The pair shared a silent moment filled with love and relief, soft lips pressing to a sweaty forehead. 

“Ladies? I’d like to introduce you to your daughter...” 

A choked sob left Quinn’s mouth as she held onto Santana’s hand tightly and accompanying tears silently escaped down dark-skinned cheeks. 

Just like twelve years ago, Santana watched as a tiny bundle was placed into her wife’s arms. 

This time there were no blonde curls, but a full head of rich red hair and a tiny Quinn-esque pout. 

This time there was no looming Puckerman - only her - but holy crap, she could sure relate to the expression on his face now. She too felt as though she’d won the world’s best lottery. 

“Santana, look at her.” Quinn breathed out in awe, her eyes taking in every tiny millimetre of their daughter’s face. “She’s perfect.” 

There had only been two times in her life that Santana Lopez had been rendered speechless. The first time had been when she’d watch Quinn give birth to Beth. The second was when the woman was walking down the aisle towards her at their wedding. 

The current moment she found herself in made it three. There weren’t enough words in the English and Spanish languages combined to express the emotions she was feeling, both for Quinn and for the miniature human cradled in her arms. 

“You want to hold her?” 

Tentatively, Santana bent down and scooped her daughter into the crook of one arm, letting her free hand gently stroke through the luscious mane of fire atop the baby’s head. The tears were still gently making their way down her sculpted cheeks, a serene smile making a home on her face. 

“She looks like you, Q. Like a tiny Cheerio ready to sass her way through life.” She chuckled and traced the baby girl’s features with the pad of her forefinger, trying carefully not to disturb her too much. Alas, her ministrations woke the baby from her daze and soon enough the hospital room was filled with a cry so loud it seemed impossible that it was coming from such a small creature. 

“I think you’re right, Honey, we’re definitely going to have our hands full with this one.” 

~ 

The little girl had gone unnamed for a total of six days. It wasn’t until, during one of the tiny minuscules of sleep they had managed to get in the last week, Quinn had jolted awake with a start. 

“Oh my God, San, wake up!” 

Her wife was up and off the bed in a second, head whipping round, stance ready to attack, or defend, or whatever it was that needed doing. “What? What happened? Is the baby alright?” 

“We’re the Powerpuff Girls!” 

“What?” 

“Me, you and the baby... We’re the Powerpuff Girls!” 

“Q, what the actual fuck? I thought you were being attacked!” Sulking, Santana made her way back into bed, resting against the headboard as her eyes drifted over the bassinet at the end of the bed where their baby was sleeping soundly (thank god). 

Cuddling into her wife’s side, Quinn lazily grinned up at her, “Sorry, Sweetheart, I just came to the realisation.” A pale hand rubbed toned tanned stomach thoughtfully, “I think we should call her Blossom. Cheryl Blossom Lopez-Fabray. You know, like the redheaded Powerpuff Girl? And Cheryl after my Nana?” 

Santana rolled the name around on her tongue a few times in English and then in Spanish, contemplating the potential of the name. “I mean, she could be anything in the entertainment industry with a name like Cheryl Blossom. Doctor Cheryl B. Lopez-Fabray sounds pretty good too... Supreme Court Justice Cheryl B. Lopez-Fabray. Okay, me gusta. Let’s do it. She’s been nameless for far too long anyway.” 

“Our little Cherry Blossom.” Santana could practically see the heart emojis in her wife’s eyes. 

“God, who’d have ever thought HBIC Quinn Fabray would become this corny sap?” 

For that she earnt the next night-time feeding duty. 

~ 

The first time Quinn Fabray had been called into the Principal’s office she had been sixteen years old and it was for physically fighting her sort-of-best friend, sometimes-enemy, Santana Lopez, in the middle of the hallway at William McKinley High School. 

In retrospect, it had been pretty hot, smashing her fellow Cheerio (and the future love of her life) into the lockers, their faces barely inches apart and chests pounding with the passion of the moment. 

It was really a deserved visit anyway; Quinn had been a complete bitch to the girl. Santana had spent all summer holding her as she mourned the beautiful baby girl she’d given away – as she watched her body morph back to its pre-pregnancy state, wiping away almost all evidence that Beth hadn’t been a figment of her imagination. The only reminder left was the stretch marks webbing her stomach and breasts. The darker woman had forced her to confront the pale lines in the mirror, convincing her to wear them with pride and honour, to treasure them as documentation that her body had created a perfect miracle. 

In return, Quinn had told Sue about the boob job Santana had used her entire childhood savings on. It had shocked her a little, if she had been honest, when her friend had shown up at her house one day near the end of the summer and demanded she drove her to a scheduled surgery. The blonde had then been forced to confront her repressed sexuality in a big way, somehow being conned into assuming responsibility for changing the girl’s dressings and helping her wash for the next two weeks. 

Looking back, she’s pretty impressed with her own self-restraint. After all, she’d only copped-a-feel once and that had been under the guise of ensuring the bandage was secured properly. When they finally got together, Quinn had guiltily admitted to it and Santana had told her she’d been well aware at the time of the blonde’s intentions, apparently having deliberately brushed her new assets against pale hands whenever she could just to tease a reaction out of the suffering HBIC. 

With the events of the summer in mind, to was safe to say the hallway smackdown and proceeding visit to the Principal’s office was pretty fair. 

~ 

The second time Quinn (Lopez-) Fabray was called into the Principal’s office she was thirty-three years old and she was greeted with the (incredibly adorable, let’s be honest) sight of a very pouty Cheryl Blossom Lopez-Fabray sulking Santana-style in the corner of the room. 

“Mama, I didn’t do it!” As soon as the five-year-old spotted her mother entering the office she was up, running across the room, long red hair flying out behind her, tears (that Quinn knew to be fake from a mile away) welling in her eyes as she threw her tiny body into the blonde’s arms. 

“Mrs. Lopez-Fabray, thank you for coming, please have a seat.” 

Apparently, Cheryl and her friend Veronica Lodge had been involved (see: instigated and masterminded) a scheme that had ended in a boy being covered with peanut butter and jelly and wetting himself in the playground. “He started it! He was bullying Ethel.” 

The indignation on her daughter’s face was identical to that she’d seen on her wife’s too many times and Quinn knew this was a battle she was never going to win. Plus, she was already aware the boy in question _was_ a bully - his mother had tried to underhandedly insult them and outbitch Santana at a parent fundraiser last Christmas. It was safe to say the poor woman had not come out on top. 

After having negotiated Cheryl’s punishment down to only one indoor ‘isolated’ recess and a promise to talk with Veronica’s parents about the situation, Quinn and her tiny redheaded twin were free to leave. 

Once off the school grounds, the blonde placed Cheryl down and the youngster started skipping her way happily down the street, swinging their conjoined hands between them. Hazel eyes rolled under perfectly made-up lids. 

“Cherry, Baby, you know I’m going to have to tell Mami about this when we get home? And we’ll have to have the Lodge’s around for dinner to discuss how you and Roni appear to be turning into tiny criminal masterminds.” 

A miniature version of her own rosy-lipped pout split into a huge grin as her daughter looked up her, “Don’t worry, Mama, Mami already said it was ok.” 

“Oh, did she now?” 

“Yep! She said that bullies should get back as good as they give out.” 

Quinn’s eyebrow cocked-up in half-surprise at that, she should have known Santana was somehow responsible for this, even if her advice had clearly been taken a little too literally by their impressionable five-year-old. 

~ 

Flopping down beside her on their oversized couch that evening, Santana released a contently-tired sigh. “She’s finally asleep. I practically had to read the entire first Harry Potter book before she was out, damn you and your brainiac genes.” The half-Latina rested her head on top of the book in her wife’s lap, demanding her full attention. “Jay-Jay was asleep by the second page.” 

Their son, Jason Jesus Lopez-Fabray, or Jay-Jay as he was more commonly known, had joined their family a year ago after Santana decided she was ready to take a break from her successful television career to carry a baby. Fortunately, it had only taken two rounds of IVF to conceive him; however, Santana still perceived the lack of success during the first attempt as a personal failure on her part and ended up having to see a therapist for a while before she was able to try again. 

When he was born, they were unsurprised to see Jay-Jay had a much darker complexion than his sister, with whom he shared a sperm donor, bearing a full head of curly brown hair and features that displayed the dominant Lopez gene. 

“I was called to the Principal’s office today.” 

Santana sat up at that, resting sideways against the couch cushions and absentmindedly reaching out to massage the nape of her wife’s neck. 

“Cheryl and Roni decided to, and I’ll quote this for you, ‘give a bully back as good as he gave out’ via the medium of peanut butter and jelly. Resulting in the child wetting himself in the playground.” 

Quinn watched as her wife desperately tried to hide the pride that was so obviously painted across her face, attempting to rearrange her features into a look of concern, “I see.” 

“Honey, do you really think after twenty years I can’t tell what you’re thinking? Come on, San, I know you’re practically bubbling with glee.” 

Santana burst out laughing at that, a deep throaty laugh that made Quinn’s heart swell. “I’m sorry, Babe, but it’s not my fault our daughter is intellectually superior to all her peers! Besides Roni, I guess... This explains why I overheard them muttering in Spanish in the tepee last week. I think we’ve found ourselves the next cheerleading co-Captains.” 

Resting her cheek in her wife’s palm, Quinn scoffed and rolled her eyes (for the billionth time that day), “Santana Diabla Lopez-Fabray, do not encourage this. Even if their intentions were pure... ish, they didn’t go about it in the right way at all and I don’t want Cheryl to think that physical violence is ever justifiable. Even if she managed to somehow rope some other boys in to commit that particular part of the crime.” 

Really, it had been an overall genius scheme that had left Cheryl and Roni completely blameless. They would have got away for it had a teacher not overheard them in the bathroom congratulating one another on the success of the plan. 

“I know, Love, I’m sorry. I’ll have a sit down with her tomorrow and explain what I really meant by that bully advice.” Santana’s thumb swiped gently across pale cheek, “She has a heart of gold, though, Q, you don’t need to worry. She won’t be as stupid and repressed as we were – we're not going to make our parents mistakes.” 

Smiling gently, Quinn pressed a kiss into Santana’s palm, turning her attention back to her book and adjusting more into the warmth of the body beside her. Her wife was content with wrapping her arms around her and shutting her eyes, enjoying the peaceful moment. 

“They _are_ going to be terrifying co-Captains, though, you’re right.” 

The admission was so quiet Santana almost missed it. 

~ 

The first time Santana Lopez had been introduced to Beth Corcoran she had been sixteen years old and petrified. Her heart was dancing some kind of quickstep in her chest as Puck had pulled her over to Quinn’s bedside, encouragingly nudging her to meet the baby he was so proud of having participated in the making of. 

Her best friend, the girl she’d been crushing on since cheer camp the summer before their Freshman year, had just grown and birthed a human being – literally unfathomable. So, here she was, meeting a child she had resented so much when she first found out about (how could _her_ Quinn have let _Puckerman_ defile her like that? The girl’s first time should have been special and full of love, not when she was drunk on wine coolers and desperately seeking approval). 

Santana had been so pissed-off, she orchestrated a revenge plan involving a rumour about genital warts and a cantaloupe, ensuring Puck didn’t get laid for the entirety of Quinn’s pregnancy (the pride for Cheryl’s scheme years later was mostly due to reminiscing about this particular incident). 

But, fuck, when Quinn Fabray had teared her eyes off her beautiful daughter to look up at Santana, the girl had lost any fraction of animosity she felt towards the baby. If this kid was responsible for the emotion she was witnessing on her crushes face, then hell, Santana would spend the rest of her life doing her best to protect her. 

~ 

“She’s not mine, so I can’t officially do this... But if I was keeping her, I’d make you her Godmother.” The words were spoken so softly into her ear as the two of them lay together in Quinn’s hospital bed later that day, Beth cradled protectively on the older blonde’s chest as Santana’s hand rested softly on the infant’s back. 

Moving her head back on the pillow so she could meet hazel eyes with dark brown, Santana hummed thoughtfully, “She’ll always be yours, Q. She’s a piece of you and nothing can change that. Not that fact someone else will raise her and definitely not because you’re brave enough to do what’s best for her and give her the life you can’t provide right now.” 

Tanned fingers brushed blonde hair in (what she hoped translated to) a soothing, reassuring motion and Quinn leant in to the touch. Just for a moment, Santana let herself imagine a future where Quinn was hers and the baby in her arms was the product of their love. 

~ 

The second time Santana Lopez was introduced to Beth Corcoran, she was twenty-three years old and newly holder of the title of ‘Quinn Fabray’s girlfriend’. Or, how Beth knew her as, ‘Auntie Tana, birth mama Quinn’s best friend who she kisses sometimes’. 

The mini-me of her girlfriend was seven years old and intimidating as hell. With Quinn’s genes and being raised by the woman who gave birth to Rachel Berry, there wasn’t ever really going to be an alternative to the calculating stare and furrowed brow adorning the small blonde’s face as she analysed the half-Latina, trying to make a judgement on whether she was worthy of loving her birth mom. 

Santana and Beth were sat on the floor of Shelby’s living room, a brand-new kid’s jewellery making kit (Santana’s idea) spread open between them as Quinn and Shelby chatted in the open-plan kitchen a few metres away. The dark-skinned woman knew they were both observing the interaction, like an unofficial test – if Beth liked her, she passed, if she didn’t, well fuck, she wasn’t going to let that happen. 

“I think I’m going to make a friendship bracelet for Quinn, what do you want to make?” Honestly, Santana never really had to interact with kids (except for that horrendous gig she had as Mrs. Claus in the mall that one time, which definitely could not be labelled a success) and she wasn’t one-hundred percent sure what the heck you were even meant to say to them. 

Beth tilted her head thoughtfully, a mannerism so reminiscent of her girlfriend, Santana couldn’t help but smile to herself. “I’m going to make a friendship bracelet for Quinn too.” The little girl was firm with her decision, staring at Santana like she’d challenged her to a fight to the death gladiator-style. There was no denying this was Quinn’s offspring. 

It took Santana a moment to contemplate the best come back to that, the pressure only made worse by the gaze she could feel burning into her from across the room. 

“Okay... Well then, how about I make a friendship bracelet for you instead? Then you can make one for Quinn and you can be matching.” 

The few seconds of silent contemplation from Beth were some of the most tense of Santana’s life. 

“But then who’s gonna make one for you?” 

A grin graced dark features; she was definitely winning the little girl over. She felt a presence behind her and turned to watch as her girlfriend sunk to her knees on the rug beside her, reaching a tanned hand up to help her down (the injuries from her car accident and proceeding paralysis had left the pale woman’s body irreparably damaged). The young couple shared a look, eyes glinting with private messages of pride and love. 

“Hey, Boo, how about I make one for Auntie Tana and then we can all match?” 

Hazel met hazel and the agreement was made. Santana didn’t take that bracelet off for two years - until she was forced to for a job - and still has it to this day, nestled between her diamonds in her jewellery box. 

~ 

Ten years later, Santana Lopez-Fabray found herself donning a bright green skirt and crop top, dancing around her kitchen preparing crustless, triangular cheese sandwiches and bowls of chips. Her wife was in the adjacent living room in a matching baby-blue number - slightly more conservative than her counterparts with the addition of a long-sleeved cardigan - hanging up silver and gold streamers. 

Their daughter was occupying herself by applying and reapplying baby pink lip-gloss (an early birthday gift from Brittany) in the mirror of a compact she’d stolen from Quinn’s purse. She matched her mothers in a little pink dress with white tights and a massive red bow atop her head. 

Together they were the Powerpuff Girls. 

Additionally, Cheryl had coaxed their black Labrador puppy, Sven (named by their kids during an all-consuming Frozen obsession), into a purple cape so they had a Mojo Jojo to complete the look. Meanwhile, the two-year-old Jay-Jay had opted for a Black Panther costume and was currently chasing Sven around the kitchen island right under Santana’s feet. 

It was Cheryl’s sixth birthday party and she’d opted for the theme of Superheroes. Mostly, she’d just wanted to dress up as her namesake, Blossom, but Quinn had convinced her to broaden their guest's options beyond exclusively the Powerpuff Girls. That being said, a massive red bow-shaped cake was still ordered with the words ‘Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice. Happy Birthday, Cherry Blossom’ sprawled across it in cursive. 

The birthday preparations were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell and Cheryl was up and running before anyone could stop her. “Cheryl Blossom, if you open that door without me or Mama with you, I’m eating your whole cake before any guests arrive.” Quinn scoffed loudly at that, muttering ‘I’d like to see you try’ under her breath as she watched her daughter's redhead pop back through the doorway, cut short on her journey to the front door. 

“That’d be greedy, Mami.” She shot back and Santana rolled her eyes, stepping forward to scoop her cheeky now-six-year-old up, tickling her tummy. 

“You’re lucky it’s your birthday, Mija.” 

Swinging the front door open, the half-Latina was greeted by Captain Marvel. Well, actually, Beth Corcoran dressed as Captain Marvel. 

The girl was seventeen now and was so startlingly similar in looks to Quinn that Santana was constantly transported back to high school whenever she was around. 

Ever since the friendship bracelet incident, Beth had become a consistent part of Santana’s life (for obvious reasons). They saw her every year on her birthday and around most major holidays; she was Quinn’s Maid-of-Honour at their wedding; she was at the hospital when Cheryl was born and again when Jay-Jay was; and she always made sure to make it to the kids’ birthday parties, willingly going along with whatever absurd theme had been chosen. 

It helped that Cheryl was absolutely obsessed with her. 

“Happy Birthday, Cherry Bomb!” The young blonde squealed, reaching out to take her miniature redheaded lookalike from Santana’s arms, pressing a kiss to a tanned cheek as she did, “Hey, Tana, missed you.” 

"Missed you too, Boo.” Santana ushered Beth in, taking her bags for her and placing them in the guest bedroom. When she returned to the living room, she found Quinn and Beth in a tight embrace whispering softly to one another, pure pride and adoration written across her wife’s face. 

~ 

When the party was all said and done and twenty Superheroes had finished saving the day by gorging themselves on cake and candy, Quinn and Santana cleared up the worst of the mess before sinking into the couch with glasses of wine. 

Jay-Jay had gone down for a nap once everyone had departed, so it was just Cheryl and Beth left sprawled amongst presents on the floor in front of the women. 

“Bombshell, I want you to open my present next, okay? It’s really special.” There was glint in Beth’s eye that Santana and Quinn both recognised. 

Obediently (Cheryl would do anything Beth asked her too – Santana was pretty she’d been brainwashed), the child slid the wrapped rectangular box towards her and ripped it open. Inside was a kid’s jewellery making kit, identical to the one gifted to Beth a decade ago. 

Santana let out an audible ‘Beth!’ and Quinn grinned widely, encasing her wife in her arms. 

“A jewellery kit?” Cheryl asked, clearly confused by her mothers’ dramatic reaction to the gift. She was grateful and, honestly, she’d adore anything the blonde gave her, but she’d had jewellery kits before and they had never garnered such a response. 

Beth chuckled, pulling her little onto her lap, “Not just any old jewellery kit, Cherry Bomb. This is super special; do you know why?” Cheryl shook her long red locks feverishly, enrapt, “When I was around your age, your Mami made me a friendship bracelet with this exact kit. I made one for your Mama and she made one for your Mami. That way we all had one and we all matched.” 

Big brown eyes creased in confusion, not seeing how this story was relevant to herself, or why she was being told it. 

“Now I’m going to make one for you from it, so you can match with me and your Mami and Mama, you see?” Realisation crept over Cheryl and her little expression turned so serious and awestruck, it looked as though she’d just been inaugurated as President and handed the key to the kingdom. “And when he’s old enough, you can make one for Jay-Jay, okay?” 

Hours of threading and beading later, Santana sang her six-year-old to sleep, a pink and red braid decorated with two cherry-shaped beads tied delicately around her little wrist. 

~ 

The first time Quinn Fabray was slapped by Santana Lopez she had been sixteen years old and an unequivocal bitch. 

There was no justifiable reason for why she told Coach Sue about Santana’s boob job. All she can attribute it is to is her own crippling self-doubt and repressed sapphic desire for her best friend. 

You see, having spent the entire summer blanketed within strong tan arms and resting against a warm lithe body as she divulged every last one of her deepest insecurities, Quinn was feeling extremely vulnerable. Then, to be walking the halls of William McKinley High School without her Cheerio's uniform or the flanking of a red and white army? It was too much anxiety to bear. 

It’s not like she really thought Santana would tell anyone her secrets, but the mere fact she’d vocalised them to the girl was enough to cause her to panic. What if the half-Latina accidentally let something slip in front of Brittany? She knew the pair were somewhat of an item (she fervently pushed down the jealously she felt when she thought about that) and she also knew Santana found it hard to filter herself in front of the taller blonde. 

These doubts wriggled into her brain at night, worming their way from her subconscious to the forefront of her mind and preventing her from getting the sleep she needed to be strong enough to will them away. 

So, that was how she found herself locked in battle with the girl she spent the entire summer sleeping beside. 

The slap had come out of the blue, in retaliation to Quinn outing of the nature of Santana’s summer surgery to the masses. When the word ‘slut’ spewed from frustratingly tempting, plump pink lips, the blonde had felt her heart crack a little. 

Sure, she deserved it, she had started this after all. But, God, Santana had just spent all summer convincing her that the pregnancy, _that Beth_ , was nothing to be ashamed of and now here she was, labelling her a slut in front of the entire student body. 

Mr Schue had broken them up eventually but the damage was already done on both ends. After that, Quinn and Santana drifted apart, eventually arriving at an amicable place, but the bond they’d made over the summer splintered beyond repair. 

It wasn’t until Quinn’s accident over a year later that they really got it back. 

~ 

The second time Quinn Fabray was slapped by Santana Lopez she was eighteen years old and had finally allowed herself to acknowledge the overwhelming attraction she felt for her best friend as what it truly was: sexual desire towards someone of the same sex (aka ‘a big homosexual crush’). 

When Finn had asked her to fly all the way back to Lima during term time with the sole purpose of mentoring a random Glee kid, she had initially declined. Why would she possibly want to leave her beautiful new life in New Haven and disrupt her class and study schedule in order to be confronted by the memories of her troubled youth? What on earth would ever possess her to do that? 

The answer? Santana Lopez. The woman had rung her upon hearing she wasn’t coming and all but blackmailed her into travelling back. Well, not really, but she’d been convincing enough with her smooth gravelly tones and promise of a Thanksgiving meal on her at Breadstix if she complied. 

So, Quinn had gone and Santana had been beautiful (and desperately trying to get over Brittany) and the Yale student had spun some half-true tale about a sleezy professor and a lesbian clambake to try and incite a reaction from her (kind of, best-ish) friend. 

She’d watched the way brown eyes had followed the seductive movement her fingers made across the lid of the piano; felt the gaze drop lower as she leant forward and pressed her arms inwards against her chest, pushing full cleavage well into view. 

Never one to back down from a flirt or a fight, Santana had matched her easily. The line was crossed at the mention of Beth (as it was after that first slap, years ago) and Quinn’s palm was out and connecting with tanned cheek before she could even register it. 

The slap back was instantaneous and she left the choir room swiftly after, not stopping until she was back in her dorm room in Connecticut, where she finally allowed the tears to fall. 

~ 

It wasn’t long after that when Kurt harangued Santana and Quinn into an intervention on behalf of Rachel Berry. 

Santana was already waiting in the loft when Quinn arrived, having jumped on the first train after her morning classes. 

“Hey.” 

The half-Latina had shot up from her spot on the couch when she spotted her in the doorway, immediately striding across the room in her ridiculously high heels and pulling her into a gentle hug. 

“Santana? Are you okay?” They hadn’t really spoken much since the slap and the blonde hadn’t been able to tell if that was a blessing or a curse. 

Before Thanksgiving they’d been calling one another at least a few times a week and texting pretty much every day. After Quinn’s accident in their Senior year, the pair had mended the relationship they’d so carelessly broken during the whole boob job fiasco and they were closer than ever when they left for college with promises to stay in touch. 

They both kept their word and college-era Quinn found herself accepting that she was maybe, a teeny bit, falling for her best friend. The distance helped with the pain of knowing she never stood a chance, Santana loved Brittany, she would _always_ love Brittany. 

But then Santana and Brittany broke-up and Quinn became the woman’s go-to for any and all needs. Santana was sad? She’d call Quinn. Santana was happy? She’d call Quinn? Santana had some gossip to share? Quinn. Santana had sex? Quinn was the first to know about it. Hell, sometimes she’d get a call from the woman at two in the morning detailing the sexual venture that had taken place only minutes before. 

So, really, it had been a welcome reprieve for her heart when Santana stopped calling after the slap. They texted a couple of times but mostly just niceties and Quinn willed herself to forget about the dark-skinned beauty she never had a chance with - she’d even had sex with a couple of different girls and guys, desperately trying to prove the old proverb of ‘the only way to get over someone is to get under someone else’ true. 

Yet here she was, arms wrapped around a perfectly toned waist and her face pressed into deliciously scented hair (all natural, Santana was just a goddess in every aspect). 

“I missed you, Q.” 

Quinn sighed, there went all the hard work she spent weeks putting in trying to move on, dashed away with three words and a nickname. “I missed you too... I’m sorry I slapped you like that.” 

She felt a chuckle bubble through Santana’s body and dark hair shook slightly. Just as she was summing herself up to accept a returned apology, they heard Rachel’s voice yelling at Kurt though the door and pulled apart swiftly, exchanging knowing looks as they unitedly activated stern-caring-bitch mode. 

There would been plenty of time for apologies later. 

~ 

The first time Santana Lopez apologised to Quinn Fabray she had been nineteen years old and in the middle of Tiffany’s in New York City. 

After having convinced Rachel not to expose her itty-bitty titties to the world in a shitty student film, the two HBICs spent the rest of their time in New York shopping. 

Quinn had all but begged her to playout her Breakfast at Tiffany’s fantasy with her and who was Santana to deny a girl a perusal of diamonds? It would have been criminal if she had, to be honest. 

That was how the brunette and blonde found themselves arms linked walking between glass cases of exquisite jewellery they couldn’t afford. Santana could kind of afford it, but she wasn’t about to blow all the money her mom gave her on pieces of metal and precious stones when she’d secretly already half dropped out of college and made her decision to move to New York. 

Quinn was leaning heavily on her; Santana knew her back acted up after a long time of standing or walking. When the truck had hit her, it had crushed and crunched her bones so badly, that even after she could walk again, the pain became unbearable sometimes and Santana had been on the end of more than a few late-nights calls when the pain killers weren’t working and Quinn had just cried down the phone in agony, terrified she was dying and needing someone (her best friend) to be there with her and whisper reassurances in her ear. 

One time it was so bad, Santana had actually got in her car and started the twelve-and-a-half-hour drive to New Haven from Louisville. She made it as far as Columbus before Quinn fell asleep and she ended up driving to Lima and spending the rest of the night at her parents' house before heading back to Kentucky the next day. 

So, when she saw the blonde woman bending forward to inspect a particularly stunning necklace, Santana slipped an arm securely around her waist and supported her weight to lighten the pressure on her spine and legs. 

In reward, she was tossed one of the most meaningful smiles she’d ever been recipient of and a blush graced dark cheeks. 

“I _am_ sorry for slapping you, by the way. And for saying what I said about Beth... I know you visit her as much as you can.” It came out as a whisper but apologies were _really_ hard for her, ok, and she was trying her goddamn hardest. 

Quinn stood up slowly, using Santana’s arm to support some of her weight and brushing close to her until their faces were just inches apart. Hazel eyes pierced deeply into dark brown, searching for something. 

Santana was unsure if it was found or not, but soft lips pressed forward onto her cheek, just missing the corner of her mouth, and then Quinn was gone, halfway across the store heading towards a cabinet filled with rings. 

~ 

The second time Santana apologised to Quinn Fabray she was twenty-three years old and standing on the stoop of a four-story walk up in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York City. 

A lot had changed since that last day in New York four years ago. 

The Glee Club kid’s first Valentine’s Day out of high school was (tragically) spent back in Lima, celebrating the marriage of William Schuester and Emma Pillsbury. Except they didn’t, because Ms. Pillsbury bailed before the ceremony had even started and Santana was forced by her friends to awkwardly commandeer the reception so they could actually get drunk on the crappiest day of the year, rather than go back to their parents’ houses alone and mope about how fucking depressing the commercially masterminded holiday was when you were single. 

This, however, turned out to be one Santana’s all-time favourite days in the history of her entire existence as, by the end of the night, she and Quinn were stumbling their way into a hotel room and having completely life-altering, earth-shatteringly phenomenal sex. 

What followed was three and a half years of riding two hours on the Metro North from Grand Central to New Haven and then back again at least once a month to hook up with her best friend. Her best friend who was _still_ her best friend despite the newly added component to their (already complicated) dynamic. Her best friend who makes her heart swell and her body tingle every time Santana gets off the train at the platform and she’s there waiting for her (which Quinn always is, come rain or shine). 

They weren’t exclusive or anything, but neither of them really dated anyone else. Santana had a brief fling with a woman, Dani, who she worked at the diner with but it hadn’t lasted long. How could it when the half-Latina was getting mind-blowingly sexually sated by a woman who knew every tiny scratch on her body and scar on her heart? 

She knew Quinn was vaguely seeing a preppy Republican asshole for a month or two but it was obviously all for appearances and she was ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure he’d never made the blonde come. It ended when Quinn attempted to introduce him to Rachel and Kurt at a party the New York trio had thrown in their apartment for Kurt’s birthday. It had actually been pretty fucking hilarious, Santana thought, to watch all five-feet of Rachel Berry forcibly remove a fully grown man from their home and proceed to stage an impromptu intervention for Quinn’s horrific dating preferences. The best part of it all had been later that night when the dark-skinned woman had made the blonde come so hard, she woke the entire apartment with her screams. 

When the blonde graduates from Yale, Santana sits beside Judy at the ceremony and wolf whistles so loudly the entire hall turns to look at her. But she doesn't care because Quinn did it! She got pregnant at fifteen; had a baby and became a skank at sixteen; got hit by a truck and paralysed at seventeen; and accepted her sexuality at eighteen. Now here she was at twenty-two, striding confidently across the stage looking like some kind of old Hollywood Star and Santana couldn’t believe she was ever graced with even a minute of this incredible woman’s time. 

Her whistle evokes a small headshake and chuckle from Quinn as she accepts her diploma and walks off towards a future she used to think she didn’t deserve. 

The immediate realities of that future involve moving to New York, which came as a blessing for Santana’s bank account (train fare was expensive) and cut down her commute for sex significantly. In fact, the apartment Quinn chose was only a fifteen-minute metro ride from hers and Santana ended up spending more time there than she did her own home. 

It was good like that for a few months. Great, actually. Then Santana had felt the need to tell Quinn how she truly felt. She whispered those three words into blonde hair and against pale, scarred skin. She looked into hazel eyes and let her emotions get the best of her. 

It had been so long since they started this, she reasoned, Quinn was living in New York now, it made sense to make this more than just best friends fucking. She wanted to make love to Quinn and tell people she was her girlfriend. She was ready. 

Quinn, apparently, was not. 

The fight that ensued was the worst they’d ever had. Worse even, than that day in Junior year when Quinn stole her Captaincy. Only, there was no slapping or throwing into lockers this time around. Just words. Angry, hurtful words spewing from both their lips and steamrollering around the room above them. 

Quinn screamed at Santana to leave and she was gone. 

~ 

They didn’t speak for two months following the fight. Rachel (Kurt had moved in with his boyfriend a year ago) tried her best to soothe the dark-skinned woman’s broken heart, letting her drink herself into a stupor for exactly one week before forcing her to shower and shave and sing sad songs at a Jazz Bar downtown. 

They must have been emotionally charged because Santana made five-hundred dollars in one night on tips alone - a dramatic increase on anything she’d made before. It was probably pity money, but it paid for new headshots and a bottle of Grey Goose, so she wasn’t complaining. 

She was fucked exactly twice in this limbo period of no Quinn. Once by a bartender in the stockroom of a club in the Village and once by a model after a casting call for a job she didn’t get. Both women had been blonde. Both times had be inordinately disappointing. 

Her breaking point came a week later when Brittany tagged her in a video on Instagram of the Unholy Trinity performing Toxic during a visit to Lima a couple of years prior. Rachel must have spread the news of her and Quinn’s unofficial ‘break-up from something that wasn’t even together in the first place’, because when it came to Brittany nothing was ever a coincidence. 

Quinn was tagged too and Santana scrolled down the comments to see she’d written ‘Miss you, Britt’. 

To say she was enraged was an understatement. 

How dare Quinn tell Brittany she missed her when Santana, who was also very much so in the video, was sat fifteen minutes away crying her goddamn eyes out every night for the woman and hadn’t had a much as a ‘hope you’re ok’ text in the past two months. 

It was this blackout rage that had Santana grabbing her purse and storming out of her apartment. She was at Quinn’s in record time – mostly due to the aggressive barging of strangers and power-walking she had adopted – and violently jammed her finger on the buzzer for apartment number three. 

She knew Quinn was up there, she had her schedule memorised and her daily habits were imprinted on the half-Latina's mind. “I know you’re there Quinn, come the fuck out and stop being a fucking pussy,” She yelled up at the open third floor window, “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.” 

The line crackled and a weary ‘one second’ tumbled its way from the rusty old box. Expecting to be let up, Santana stopped her incessant buzzing and waited for the sound of the door unlocking. It never came, however, and instead Quinn Fabray emerged, tiredly yanked at the heavy piece of glass and metal and stepped outside, letting it swing closed behind her. 

She looked how Santana felt. Eyes red and puffy, dark bags looming beneath them. She looked a little paler and skinnier too and the tanned woman’s anger was quickly dissipating into worry. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Q....” 

“I told you to forget about me, Santana! I asked you to walk away and never come back.” Her voice was huskier than usual and cracked as she raised it. 

“I’m sorry, Q, but I can’t forget about you and I can’t fucking walking away. I want you! You! Not Brittany, not Dani, you. Quinn Fabray! Quinn fucking Fabray! I love you and I think you love me too, so take your head out of your own ass and just accept that... I want to be with you.” What started as a yell trailed-off into a choked sob and Santana could see the internal conflict Quinn was having with herself over whether she should step closer to comfort her or not. 

Santana made the decision for her, closing the few steps between them and reaching out to cup the blonde’s cheek, brushing away a tear with her thumb. 

A whisper, “I’m so scared, Santana.” 

“Why?” 

“Of losing you. If this doesn't work out and you end up hating me or can’t bear to me around me. I can’t lose you! You’re my best friend. You’ve been the only constant in my life for almost a decade... I need you and I can’t jeopardise that.” 

It was so desperate and sad and Santana suddenly felt like a complete moron for not thinking about how her admissions of love must have been so scary for someone like Quinn. 

Santana loved openly and unabashedly. She meant what she said and she said what she meant. But for Quinn it was harder. She’d lived for so long in the grey area of loving and being loved, it was only normal she learnt to associate love with loss. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Quinn, I promise. _I love you_. I loved you as a friend. I loved you as an enemy. I loved you as a lover. I just love you,” Santana shrugged, hand dropping from the blonde’s face, “there’s no getting rid of me now, I’m in it for the long-haul.” 

Her eyes were greener than ever today, fluttering over dark features until they landed hesitantly on soulful brown. A pale pink lip fell from where it was captured and being abused by perfectly straight, pearly-white teeth; a hint of a smile tugging its way across stern expression. Quinn stepped forward, closing the final distance between them and Santana could see the woman’s jaw muscles tensing as she came to her conclusion. 

“You’re going to regret that promise.” 

“Never.” 

~ 

The first time Quinn Fabray had woken up in a hospital room she had been eighteen years old, petrified and utterly confused. 

From the corner of her eye, she could blurrily make out a figure kneeling at her bedside. Their palms were pressed together and propped on the edge of the bed with their forehead resting on the side of their hands. It was immediately recognisable to Quinn that the person was praying. Focusing as best she could, the injured woman could just make out a dark, messy bun atop the stranger’s head, secured with a Cheerio-red and white scrunchy. 

Not a stranger then. Santana. 

A long rush of hushed Spanish spewed from the woman on the floor, her tone pleading with her God – for what, Quinn was unable to determine, but she knew it probably had something to do with the fact she was in a hospital bed and couldn’t feel a single inch of her body. That, or it was motivated by the breathing tube she was suddenly very aware of clogging her mouth. 

Panicking, Quinn tried to let out a cry for help but all that came out was a loud groan and she could feel hot tears spilling down her cheeks. 

The noise drew Santana’s attention and she leapt up from her place on the ground, slamming the nurses' button and yelling for a doctor. “You’re okay, Q, it’s okay. A doctor’s coming.” 

The bun wobbled over her as the woman leant into her direct line of sight and wiped at her tears with warm hands. The comfort of the familiar touch was short-lived and before long various doctors and nurses were rushing into the room to work on her, forcing Santana to wait outside. 

In a series of painful and humiliating events, the breathing tube was removed, a catheter bag changed (she hoped Santana hadn’t been aware of that disgusting detail) and a few tests carried out on her mobility and brain function. 

Apparently, Quinn had been driving to Rachel and Finn’s (idiotic) wedding when a drunk driver in a truck had jumped a stop-light and crashed full speed into the side of her car. They told her she was ‘lucky to be alive’ and that ‘a collision at that speed should have resulted in death on impact’. She thought it was pretty shitty to tell her that considering they’d all just discovered she couldn’t feel her fucking legs, but it seemed to be hospital policy to guilt their patients into feeling thankful for the injuries they’d sustained. 

Her mom came in pretty soon after that, cooing and crying and giving Quinn the most pitiful look, she didn’t think she’d stand to bear any much more of it. Unfortunately, it was a look she had grown accustomed to when she was pregnant with Beth and it seemed to be making a revival (in the end, Quinn was forced to lecture the entire Glee club into not giving her the look unless they wanted to face Santana’s wrath (her best friend had volunteered the consequence of her own volition and who was Quinn to disagree?)). 

Eventually, Judy left and she was alone at last. Where had Santana gone, she briefly wondered, would she come back? There were so many painkillers and other drugs running through her veins, hazel eyes could barely stay open and had shut entirely by the time she heard the door click close softly. 

The soporific effect of the medicine made it near impossible for Quinn to open her eyes, so instead she twitched her fingers to show she was still (barely) awake. 

Santana had come to her side, perching on the bed and taking the hand she’d wiggled between two soft, warm ones. Quinn felt her limb lifted and damp lips pressed to it, “Fucking hell, Q. You scared the crap out of me.” 

It was so _Santana_ that the pale woman wanted to laugh – she would have if her comatose-state had allowed. 

“I was terrified when your mom called Sue and told her what happened... We were all there waiting for you, Quinn! You should have been there too... I don’t think I’ve ever seen Coach look so worried, but, fuck, she made eye contact with me and I knew! I just fucking knew it was about you. You know? Like, just from the sheer terror on her face, I knew. I knew it was about you and that something bad had happened.” 

“She drove me here, you know? Coach Sue, I mean. She jumped up so fast - I didn’t think her bony old lady body was capable of moving at that speed – and she said you’d been in a crash and were in the hospital. Then everyone started freaking the fuck out and she grabbed my shoulder and forced me into her car and them, bam, we were here.” 

“They didn’t let me see you for fucking hours! Hospital bureaucracy can suck my actual dick, it’s such a joke. I literally had to wait for almost twenty-four whole-ass hours before they let me in here, Q. I almost lost my mind goddamn mind. AND I was so close to being forcibly removed by security for having a _perfectly reasonable_ conversation with a nurse about the legality of keeping you locked away back here all alone...” 

“Anyway, I think you’ve fallen asleep, but if you ever do that to me again, Lucy Quinn Fabray, I’ll... I’ll- well- I'm not sure what I’ll do but you won’t fucking like it, that’s for damn sure... Don’t tell anyone this, not that you will because you’re asleep and can’t hear me, but I care about you a whole lot, Q. Like, so much it scares me. And I know we lost our way a little bit this year because we’re both epic bitches who can’t admit when they’re wrong... but, I want you in my life forever, alright? So, don’t go doing anything stupid like dying on me, okay?” 

“I need you.” 

Quinn’s sleep was mostly dreamless because of the drugs, but she could have sworn, amongst the never-ending darkness, Santana was there, fingers interlocked, anchoring her to earth. 

~ 

The second time Quinn Fabray had woken up in a hospital room she was forty-three years old and curled protectively into the irresistible curves of her wife’s body. 

A quiet cough woke her from the light doze she’d accidentally slipped into and she heard the sound of the page of a book brushing against the bedsheets as it was slowly turned. 

Extracting her arm from its possessive grip across Santana’s stomach, Quinn pushed her blonde hair from where it had fallen across her face as she slept on her wife’s shoulder, tilting her head back and up to look at the woman in question properly. 

Santana put her book to one side and cast Quinn a sheepish smile. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“My head throbs like fuckery but other than that, not too shabby.” 

“Cheryl’s going to kill you.” 

“I know.” 

“ _I’m_ going to kill you.” 

“Q...” 

Quinn sat up further and took in the sight of her wife in her hospital gown, tucked up under the sheets with a massive bandage wrapped around her head. She looked so small and vulnerable. There was still a bit of blood dried in luscious brunette locks and Quinn could feel tears bubbling under her lids. 

Leaning forward carefully, the paler of the two women pressed their lips together softly before pulling away, a stern look on her face. 

“I told you it was too early for you to be going back to work, Santana. You needed at least another week of rest, but noooo, Santana Diabla Lopez-Fabray doesn't get sick. Doesn’t need bed rest. ‘I’ll be fine, Babe, it’s just a cold’... And now look! One dizzy spell on set and you freaking fall over and smash your head on the corner of a fake stripper pole stage.” 

Santana reddened at that. She was the lead in the new Hustlers series on HBO and really this was probably the least sexy way to start off filming their second season. 

Quinn slid off the bed to start pacing around the room. “I cannot believe how irresponsible you are! You promised me, Santana! _Promised_ that you would never leave me. How could you risk your safety like that?” 

The waterworks had started now and even though Quinn knew she was mildly overreacting, she couldn’t help but let her angst spill out. 

“What if you hadn’t woken up, hmm? What if you had amnesia or something?” 

Santana had to shut her eyes as the love of her life paced laps around her room, the motion of it making her feel nauseous. 

“Um, Q? Maybe you could stand still?” 

The blonde instantly halted, rushing to Santana’s side and placed the back of her hand on a dark-skinned cheek to see if she was too warm. “Sorry, Sweetheart,” her tone was gentler now, “I was just so worried. I love you so much.” 

The half-Latina hummed into the touch, pouting her lips to indicate she wanted to be kissed. Quinn gave into her quickly and a meaningful silence filled the room. 

Just then, the clack of heels on hard vinyl floors and the slam of the door being swung open announced the arrival of their sixteen-year-old daughter. 

“Mami! How could you be so stupid?” Cheryl Blossom Lopez-Fabray stormed across the room to the bed, a flash of red with her hair and signature outfit colour. 

Quinn, having jumped back from the bed in surprise at the teen’s entrance, kissed a flushed cheek even paler than her own and retreated to a chair in the corner, happy to let her wife deal with the consequence of her actions. 

“Mija, Baby, I’m sorry-” 

“-Don’t ‘Baby’ me, Mami! You have displayed a complete and utter disregard for the feelings of your family! You could have been seriously injured; you could have d-d-” Cheryl’s outburst was cut off as the reality of the situation hit her and sobs escaped in torrents. 

Alarmed, Santana tugged her daughter down onto the bed and held her against her chest, whispering apologies in Spanish into fiery hair and rubbing her shaking body. 

Exchanging a look with her wife, conveying the ‘I told you so’, ‘fix this’ and ‘I love you’ she wanted to vocalise, Quinn made her way out of the room. 

Outside, further down the corridor, she found a young woman, dressed in a tight leather jacket and ripped skinny jeans, leaning against the wall anxiously glancing to and from her wife’s hospital room. 

Seeing her approach, the girl stood up straight and brushed down her outfit self-consciously, “Mrs. Lopez-Fabray. Hi... How is she?” 

A hand stuck out in greeting, but Quinn brushed it aside to instead pull the affronted teen into a brief hug. “You must be Toni?” 

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

The blonde threw her head back in a throaty chuckle at that. Cheryl had been subtly dropping hints about a ‘Toni’ for weeks now and Quinn’s wife had been desperately trying to ascertain any information she could about the mystery person. 

Naively, they had assumed that it had been a male ‘Tony’, with a ‘y’, rather than the petite female ‘Toni’ with an ‘i’ that stood before her. 

“Well, if by ‘she’ you mean my wife, she’s fine – a little banged up but she’ll be okay. However, if you mean ‘she’ as in my daughter, then I think the words ‘whirlwind of emotions’ most accurately sums it up.” 

Toni’s gaze was averted away from Quinn towards their feet in embarrassment at this point, her fingers nervously playing with the beads intricately braided into the end of her long hair. 

It was a like a portal had opened to twenty-five years ago and Quinn was watching Santana in the hospital waiting for her to wake-up after the crash. Shaking her head at the image, Quinn released a single airy chuckle and tucked her forefinger delicately under Toni’s chin to tilt it up, dropping her hand away and flipping it palm up in question. “Do you drink coffee, Toni?” 

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

“You can call me, Quinn, Sweetie... Would you accompany me whilst I fetch some for the infuriating women down the hall I have been burdened with?” 

The teasing achieved the desired affect and Toni cracked a smile, nodding eagerly. 

Quinn turned to head in the direction of the café, calling over her shoulder, “I’m going to pretend I don’t see those motorcycle helmets by your feet this time around, Toni. But next time you better remind Cheryl that Santana will literally ground her until the day she leaves for college if we find out she’s been riding on that death-trap with you. Understood?” 

“Yes, Ma’am. I mean! Yes, Quinn...” 

Even when she had long moved out of her mothers’ home, Cheryl Blossom Lopez-Fabray never had the nerve to get on a motorcycle again. 


End file.
